drop your suitcases at my doorstep
by emilyforprez
Summary: i need a place to stay.
1. I

**A/N:** I'm sorry, but, now that Quinn and Finn are over, where the fuck is she living?

* * *

For the first time, she appeared at his doorstep.

It was raining. It had been raining for a while since... whatever happened with Finn. She appeared at his doorstep, announced by an ominous roar of thunder and a cliche flash of lightning, her eyes downcast and two hastily-packed bags in her hands.

She appeared at his doorstep without a smile or hopeful eyes.

He kind of took her in, her soaked hair, the raindrops and tears beading on her skin. Thunder rumbled as she shook there. Just waiting.

He paused with his hand on the door frame and his eyes carefully caressing her, easing their way to her sullen gaze. She stared right back at him, unwavering and unapologetic. No apologies. Just a calm, collected gaze that bore so deep into him, he fancied she could see the depths of his soul. Hear his breathing turn uneven and shallow.

"Puck," she murmured, soaking wet to the very bottom of her jeans, her maternity shirt slicked to her stomach, "I need a place to stay."

He should have turned her down. His heart was thumping oh-so-heavily against his ribcage, every vein pulsing with adrenaline. But his brain was clearly stating _no._ Turn her down, go back inside, watch old reruns of sitcoms.

Instead, he nodded, whispered, "I know," and reached out to her with one hand. In a gesture that meant so little, so completely insignificant, yet so horribly profound. She stared at his hand and delicately placed hers in the warm crook, lacing her fingers through his.

In a swift movement, she was pulled into the house, both bags fallen to the ground and face buried into his shirt, sobbing and heaving, the punctuated bawling thudding against his aching heart.

In a swift movement, she leaned forward, pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, and wrapped both arms around him, silently begging him to care for her. Because it was such a cruel world, such a terrible world, and she wanted to feel safe and protected again. Loved, like an infant in a crib, both parents watching over.

He carried her to his bedroom and they did not make love; she fell asleep on his chest, face nestled into the curve of his neck, both soaked to the bone with piercing rain - yet neither willing to care.


	2. II

The sun rose hesitantly the following morning, because all life must go on. Watery beams of light slid over every crevice of the earth, shallow puddles fading, beads of rain evaporating. The curtains muffled the light as it dared to break into the room.

He had already been awake, watching her. The moment was too peaceful to disturb.

Quietly, he breathed into the cloud of her blonde hair, inhaling her sickly sweet magnolia scent, rustling the individual strands. She was still asleep, eyes firmly shut and mouth pressed into a loose pout. She looked beautiful when she was asleep, he decided - even more beautiful than when she was awake.

He gently brushed a wisp of her hair off her forehead, touch skidding across the smooth skin. Almost immediately her eyes fluttered open, and he was met with hazy brown eyes, a tempest of temporary confusion and awe.

They were back to normalcy in a near second, understanding and warmth flooding through them. "Puck." She said his name with such fervent urgency. She blinked at him, thrown off-guard by his tentative gaze, and instead dropped her head onto his chest again. "Thank you." She sighed and nuzzled her nose into the cloth of his cotton shirt.

It occurred to him that she hadn't thanked him the night before. "Yeah," he muttered with lack of anything better to say, the release of breath stirring her hair again.

"If you had turned me away..." She stopped herself to swallow thickly, and his heart thudded against her ear - he fancied she could hear the pulsing of his aching blood. Exhaling softly, she continued, "I just don't know what I would have done."

"Finn kicked you out." He didn't need to ask what he already knew.

She barked out a bitter laugh, muffled against his clothed chest. "Oh, it was much worse than that," she whispered cruelly, fisting her hands in the smooth cotton. "He came home and basically told me that if I didn't get out, he'd call my parents and tell them..."

He suddenly tensed. "That it wasn't Finn's," he finished. "It was mine."

"They'd sue me for the sheer disappointment alone." She attempted to laugh, but it came out weak and breathless. She looked up and bit her lip apologetically. Her eyes were pleading, desperate - she needed him to stay neutral with her, to stay content. If he sent her away, she had nowhere else to go.

He found himself willingly giving himself over to her begging. Threading his fingers through her hair, he silently told her he would keep her safe.

She settled herself further into his embrace and silently told him she needed him.


	3. III

Tentative steps down the narrow corridor announced his arrival.

"Noah," his mother croaked from her stance. She was curled into a fetal position in front of the television; flickering lights in the dark room lit up her face, casting gaunt shadows across her cheek bones. A twist in his stomach reminded him that he shouldn't pity her.

He came into view silently, meekly, leaning against the stucco wallpaper and feeling it cool the nape of his neck. "Mom," he greeted stiffly, voice smooth and silky. He needed his wits in order to win over Mrs. Puckerman.

"What do you want?" The cruel coldness in her voice made him wince, thrown off-guard by the bitterness. Ever since Dad #4 left, she refused to look at him with anything more than frigid reluctance, like he was conspiring to walk out on her and his sister, too.

"Quinn is staying here." He decided to be blunt and cool about it. If he stammered, if he froze on the spot, she would realize something's up. Even if she was on the verge of self-induced death, she wasn't an idiot, either. If it came down to it, she had intuition like no other, and finding out that her only son had impregnated a _Christian_ girl - oh, the horror! - she would have a fit.

His mother turned with icy dislike in her bleak eyes. "Quinn Fabray," she spat, as if the name brought a curse.

He decided it was time to leave his mother be. "Yes," he said shortly, facing away from her and finding his reflection on the mirror across the hall. He studied every angle of his face before he averted his gaze, hating what became of him when his mother spoke. With the final word, he slithered away from the living room, from the rank stench of rotting human flesh, and found himself back in his room.

Quinn was brushing her hair in the mirror, sitting with poised delicacy on a stolen dining room chair. Her eyes were closed as she counted the sweep of the brush through her blonde locks. One, two, three, in steady rhythm.

She managed to look so beautiful in such a horrible setting.

Quietly, the tiniest creaks in the floorboards the only indicator his presence, he sat on the corner of his bed directly next to her, watching her fervently as she completed the most simple tasks.

Resting his chin on her shoulder, he pressed his nose to the crook of her neck, inhaling the warm, sweet smell he'd missed in his all-but-two minutes away from her. Her eyes opened to meet his gaze in the mirror, and she angled her neck to allow him better access.

Pressing a kiss to the skin, he released a sigh of contentment. "You're keeping me alive, you know." Honesty was never his thing, but it sounded appropriate.

"No, I didn't know." Her voice was wispy and soft with the slightest hint of laughter, as if she didn't quite understand him.

He closed his eyes and listened to his heart beating in quick, rapid movements.

It was better if she didn't believe him.


	4. IV

**A/N: **We don't know anything about Puck's little sister, so humor me.

* * *

"How small is it?" prompted his sister, shining green eyes stretched wide as she gazed with equal curiosity and wonder at the baby bump currently displayed.

He wondered if she liked the attention, or if it reminded her that the baby wasn't truly hers. He turned his back on the scene. It was far too domestic, and his wall had interesting patterns.

"Very small," she answered tightly, her voice sounding thin and quivering. He needed to put a stop to this. She was so close to breaking.

Turning imperceptibly, he bit out, "Lizzie, go." The beginnings of his sister's protests were drowned out in a last, final order: "If you tell mom about this, I will tell her who ate the cookies." Lizzie gave a faint sound of astonishment and stomped her heel stubbornly, but she managed to listen to him and scurry out of the room.

She released a relieved breath of air, as if the storm had passed.

"I'm sorry about that." He felt the need to apologize even if it wasn't fully his fault. At nine years old, Lizzie's curiosity about _everything_ proved a hassle, for she always had unending questions about the baby and why its mother was staying here.

She bit her lip as he turned, and all at once he was reminded of why he wanted her. Catching his reverent gaze, she broke into a smile; his heart thudded against his ribcage with heightened urgency.

"It's still our baby, Quinn," he heard himself saying, because it wasn't fair that she had to go through his uncertainty alone. The worrying would give her perfect skin wrinkles.

She raised her gaze to his again and the tempest of fear and calmness battling there took his breath away. He should have expected her next words, but they still sent him reeling, as if he was insignificant and stupid. "_She_'s still our baby." The correction was frivolous and unnecessary, but the profoundness of her words made him blink.

"We're keeping her?" It sounded like he was talking about a dog and he winced at the thought. "We're keeping our baby?" The words felt funny on his tongue, fuzzy, as if they didn't actually exist.

She nodded quietly and he wanted to rush over to her, pick her up in his arms and kiss her and make love to her. He wanted to tell her how happy he was, how glad he was that they were keeping what was rightfully theirs.

Instead, he couldn't face her. He murmured, "Alright," and she never saw the way his eyes glazed with unreleased tears.


	5. V

The next few weeks passed in a blur of singing, dancing, and furtive glares. He never paid attention to Finn's jealousy, Finn's fury; if poor Hudson happened to see her resting on his shoulder, more power to him. The jaw-clicking, the angry fist-clenching - it passed over his head like it didn't even exist. His entire life was composed of three separate parts: Quinn, their baby, and glee club.

Everything else wasn't important.

She fell again the day they were practicing a new set-list for regionals; this time, he didn't have to compete with Finn for her arm, and he didn't look out of place caring for her. He was at her side in an instant, lips pressed to her ear, whispering apologies and promises and fragments of their future.

She placed her arms around him and murmured, "Take me home. I can't do this."

He may have not been affected by Finn's hot eyes, cutting through him - but she was. She bit her lip and her eyes darted to Finn before she looked back at him, pleadingly. "Please." She tugged on his shirt collar.

He swallowed and dropped a kiss into her hair, ignoring the way everyone awkwardly turned their heads, the way Finn released a hiss through his teeth. Frankly, it no longer mattered. Rising, supporting her with sturdy arms, he steadied her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Mr. Schuster was staring expectantly at them, lips thinned. "Well?"

He dipped his head in apology. "We need to go home." The way 'we' and 'home' tumbled from his lips sounded so natural, so easy, so domestic. She squeezed his shoulder next to him, silently urging him on.

Lifting his eyes to Mr. Schuster again, he managed a twisted half-smile. "Sorry. We'll be back tomorrow." Without another word, he guided her by her quaking shoulders, pressing the softest of kisses on her temple. Just for personal pleasure, of course - the way Finn was staring at them made his heart soar.

There was silence where they left the room. Rachel's eyes stretched wide and she whispered to Kurt, "Are they _official_?"

Mercedes rolled her eyes, though in truth, she didn't have the answer herself. Meeting her best friend's eyes, she realized he didn't, either, and the tense silence carried on.


	6. VI

There was another storm that night.

The trees shook in the gusts of wind, showering the small abode with their leaves; the branches scraped along the side of the house and sent eerie echoes through the darkness. Thunder crashed ominously and lightning rocketed across the sky, illuminating her sleeping shape through the muffled curtains. He lay awake, watching, waiting, protecting. He hadn't slept since the morning she awoke in his arms.

The slight stirring in the air mattress next to his bed proved she was not asleep, after all, and a tremor of surprise ran up his spine, though he knew it was because of the gale. He watched quietly as she rolled over onto her side and released an exasperated sigh. A tiny smile quirked his lips.

"Puck?" she whispered into the gloom, seeking him out with narrowed green eyes. He remained still until he could hear her voice again, cutting through the thunder, with a slight fear in its tone, "Puck, are you awake?"

He contemplated answering for a moment, closing his eyes for a single heartbeat and blinking them open again. "Mm," came his noncommittal grunt, nearly silenced by the storm still rumbling outside. "Yeah, I'm awake." The reply wasn't exactly heroic or warm, but he found he couldn't really care anymore.

She blew out a small gust of air, relieved. "Can you come down here?" Her voice was equal parts of terror and tentativeness, with the warmth he lacked. She took in another breath, sitting slowly upright in her bed, the sheets tangled around her ankles and the sliver of her flimsy pink chemise revealed from underneath the cover. "Please?"

The way she was nearly begging made him oblige easily, lowering himself onto the mattress without even a hint of hesitation. There was a soft crumpling sound as he lay down next to her, the bed accomodating his weight. She watched him critically before waiting until he'd settled to snuggle at his side, her blonde waves splayed out over his chest and her nose burying into the fabric of his wife-beater. She inhaled deeply and clutched at the cotton.

"I've never told anyone," she began deliberately, her voice somewhat muffled by the cloth, "but I have this... this pathelogical fear of thunderstorms." There was embarrassment in her voice and he could feel her flushing aganst the crook of his arm. "Ever since I was a little kid, I have," she went on, babbling incessantly. "And at home, m-my dad would always come into my room and lay with me whenever there was a storm." She laughed brokenly. "Silly, isn't it?"

He listened to her shallow breathing before he answered. "No, not really. I have a pathelogical fear of moths." And there it was: a small secret with such weighted profoundness, finding away out of his lips. He chuckled to himself, realizing he couldn't really care if she knew. "One of the most harmless bugs on this planet... and I'm simply terrified of it."

She was still and silent for a moment before twisting her body around, surprising him by settling herself above him, the sheet now slipped entirely off of her and her chemise hiked too high. It was a tense standstill, a test of willpower, that he eventually lost.

In a swift movement his lips were seeking hers, and her skin was held flush against him, all the warmth bursting into flame. Her hands drifted to his neck, down his chest, feather-soft and ice-cold. In the flash of lightning, he could see her, illuminated in muffled blue light, slipping her night dress off her body and leaning down again.

In each break of crashing thunder, he could hear her whispering, "_Puck._"


	7. VII

The morning was unexpected and abrupt, shedding far too much light into the room. Droplets of rain on the window slid slowly down the glass and dotted the fragments of sunlight with tiny shadows. It was almost like the awkward morning-after in an annoying, generic chick-flick that all guys loathed with passion. It was Wednesday, and they were due early for glee practice, but both were still fastened securely against each other with soft snores mingling in the air.

When he awoke, blinking open his eyes in the aching rays, she was already stirring above him, her eyes a strange shade of hazel in the lighting. She caught his gaze and froze immediately, as if willing him to disappear if she simply pretended she wasn't there. She closed her eyes tightly and rolled over to her side, tumbling off of him and taking the sheet with her, leaving him stark with his boxers at his feet and his wife-beater crumpled into a ball and thrown over the lamp.

There was regret in her voice and he could just _picture_ her bottom lip swollen as her teeth pulled it underneath them when she whispered, "Good morning, Puckerman." She exhaled loudly and he could still imagine her eyes flaring with annoyance, as if it was _his_ fault she'd straddled him, _again._

She only ever called him Puckerman when she was pissed, and he wanted to wail his confusion and frustration out loud. How could it change from, _"Touch me, Puck," _to, _"Good morning, Puckerman," _in one night? How could it change from her _wanting_ him to her _regretting_ the entire thing? He decided he would never understand women.

"Good morning, Fabray." Two could play at the hot-and-cold game. If she wanted to hate him the morning after he acquiesced to her horny demands, then so be it - he could attempt to hate her, too.

"Is today Wednesday?" He pictured her perfectly-shaped brows furrowed as she tried to remember the day, and winced as he imagined the cold dislike in her eyes when she looked at him. "Shit, it is, isn't it?"

"Stop trying to change the subject, will you?" His patience finally snapped, whatever was left of it. She physically flinched - he could see the tiny rustling in the sheet. "And," he added before she could say anything, "I _know_ that's what you're doing, because you know what day it is. You never forget. You have a memory like an elephant."

She stood up suddenly, the sheet wrapped around her body, as if to hide herself from him. The fiery anger in her eyes made him want to punch a hole in the flimsy wall. "Puck, I'm _not_ trying to change the stupid subject, alright? We weren't even having a full conversation." _Whose fault is that?_ "We need to get ready for school. Can you _please_ get out while I get dressed?"

She still never ceased to amaze him.

Lewdly, he blatantly dragged his eyes up to her gaze, where he could see the struggling there. He smirked and shrugged offhandedly, though the small shattering in his chest proved he cared far too much than he was willing to admit. "Why not just let me watch?" he challenged bitterly, willing her to just _stop_ fighting the inevitable. "It's not like it's something I haven't seen before." He stopped, contemplating, then added irresistably, "_Twice._"

"Puck." The warning in her voice didn't seem to register.

Finally, unnerved by her unwavering gaze, he rolled his eyes and heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the way she tried to avoid seeing him naked - _why stop the inevitable? _- and pulling his boxers up to his waist. He slipped a towel over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him.

With the door closed, his false confidence finally lifted off his chest, and he crumpled into a pathetic heap in the narrow hallway, silently banging the back of his head into the wall and killing what was left of his useless brain cells.


	8. VIII

**A/N: **Some of you have asked about the lack of names. I use "he" and "her" to make it more personal to the reader, rather than their actual names. On a side note, I'm listening to Manchester Orchestra's _12 Days of Christmas _release and it's superb.

* * *

_"She will destroy you. It's what she does best. And besides, it's how she likes to spend her spare time. Once you are a broken mess on the floor, she'll pick you up and glue you back together so you're whole once more and she can start all over again."_

The room was somehow frigid - a reminder of winter approaching just over the horizon - when they slunk steadily into the rehearsal room, guilt written in plain sight on their visages, with Mr. Schuster gazing with stern acceptance at their forms. Must have been imagining what _troubles_ they were facing the same morning, and left it be. The guilt was tampered with still more remorse, for their excuse was really not an excuse at all.

Being teenagers, the rest understood all-too-well, grimaces or shocked, gaping mouths, with the thin, tight-lipped anger suppressed on Finn's lips. They joined the club on the heel of the stage, settling themselves uncomfortably with their legs dangling haphazardly off the edge. Her cheeks were flushed with natural rouge, her eyes downcast, both hands wringing each other in her lap. He managed not to look too carefully into her shy, closed-off stature.

"Now, for Sectionals, we have a few important sets to master..."

As Mr. Schuster went on about activities too unimportant to tune into, he began to feel decidedly sick. It was something about Finn's not-so-furtive glares, Rachel's wide-eyed glances, and the rest of the glee club's minds going into overdrive. He could feel them analyzing her, and scrutinizing him, until the thought of sitting there dormant for much longer was terrifying.

With a queasy raise of his hand, he retreated to the bathroom and promptly vomited the contents of his stomach.

He sat quietly in the cold bathroom stall for much longer than was necessary, gathering his wits and repeatedly knocking his head on the cool stucco, a habit he was too familiar with as of late. When he finally emerged, his mind was peacefully open and calm, and his eyes were slightly glassy. He was sure it hadn't been for longer than twenty minutes.

Long enough, apparently, for when he appeared back in the rehearsal room, the rest of the club was dispersed and Mr. Schuster was speaking to her in a nondescript corner. A twist in his stomach proved he wasn't as unaffected by the sight as he should have been.

As soon as her eyes drifted to his in the gloom, her face brightened, and she waved off Mr. Schuster with a breezy toss of her hand.

He raised an eyebrow at her, and it seemed as if a signal, for the spell was broken and she tore into a run towards him, surprising him by jumping into his suddenly-waiting arms. She wrapped herself closer and closer to him, giggling with lack of lucidity into his ear. She curled her arms over his neck and whispered, "Guess what?"

It didn't seem like so much of a secret, but still he kept his voice low. "What?"

"Mr. Schuster gave me a solo in our set-list." The joy in her tone was unable to be suppressed, and she leaned back to give him a grin, her eyes lit with excitement. Then, without contemplation, she pressed forward and placed both hands on his cheeks, kissing him full on the lips.

The exchange was such a shock to him that he could do little more than react, and though it was over in mere heartbeats, it sent his blood pulsing with adrenaline through his system, and quickened his breath considerably. She was still grinning when she pulled back, and the idea of her not feeling _any _regret for it was a gift all its own. He found himself grinning right back at her, ignoring the too-obvious glare that had really gotten too old to affect them anymore.

Yet, when glee club was over, and they were crowding to be released from rehearsal room, he found his jaw suddenly collided with Finn's fist, and that was something he couldn't really ignore.


	9. IX

**A/N: **The quote will make a bit more sense in this chapter.

* * *

"_Ouch._" He managed not to flinch as she dabbed alcohol on bruised flesh, gently pressing with a flimsy paper towel to soak the small dots of blood caused from Finn's knuckles. Everyone had decided that there was no need to send Finn to the Principal's office as long as it was never repeated. This ultimately caused her to have to clean up the wound Finn had left: an expanse of a dark purple bruise, with tiny speckles of blood and a welt of tender red skin.

He could tell she was trying not to laugh, her hand drifting sometimes over her mouth to hide an eye-crinkling smile. He scowled at her in good nature. Even if it really was _her_ fault he ended up with a war wound the size of Alaska, he found it impossible to be angry at her, and gazed with wonderment as she worked efficiently to clean it for him.

She caught his eyes and lifted an eyebrow in question, her hands stilled on the paper towel hovering over his jawbone. There was a hint of a smile quirking at her lips.

"You're really beautiful, you know that?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd told her this. Last week, last month? The concept of time was such a frivolous matter when she lived in his home, slept in his room; it was as if the weeks passed by meaninglessly as long as she was still there. He offered her a crooked half-smile, overjoyed as she dipped her head in embarrassment. She could somehow be so humble with the face of an angel.

She continued to dab the alcohol on his bruise, and this time the pain was incomprehensible; she was simply there, and it was all that seemed true. "I've been told that before," she murmured softy, her hair in a cloud over her eyes, impossible to see her expression. He could still see the tiny smile on her lips.

He found himself unable to answer as her hands worked delicately at the wound, until there was gauze patched over it and the stinging ache was reduced to a numb throb. She tossed the paper towel in the trash can and slipped the bottle of alcohol into her Purse of Magic and Wonder, that seemed to carry every necessary item for survival in the woods.

It was at that moment that Finn opened the door to the men's bathroom, with the innocent pretense of probably needing to use the toilet. He froze in his tracks at the sight of them, and then there was that oh-so-familiar glare they'd _missed_ so much.

With the calm poise of a coiled snake, she straightened herself and breezed past Finn, only to pause imperceptibly to deliver a harsh kick to his groin. As he let out a wail of agony, she sniffed haughtily, lifted her chin, and glided out of the door.

He felt like walking on air.


	10. X

**A/N: **People have asked about the plot. It is made obvious here. Some people have asked for longer chapters. That's not going to happen. (:

* * *

Somehow, the entire situation was manipulated to a point that made it work in his favor. Her eyes followed him everywhere, as if terrified he would leave; he found her in his embrace too frequently to document. He made sure she never left his sight for too long if he could help it. Something about the new-found vulnerability frightened him, yet it excited him all the same, relief weighing down his senses. She _didn't_ truly consider him a Lima Loser; she wanted him, and acted upon these wants often.

When the door was tightly shut, barring away trespassers with his weak lock, she assailed him, her lips pressing burning butterfly kisses down his neck, her hands fisted in his shirt, gripping at his nape. He found himself pushing her against the wall, breathing labored, blood thrumming through his body. What a natural, animalistic way to solve everything. Never part of his perfunctory routine, yet a welcome blessing.

Her arms were locked in a vice-grip above her head, pinned to the wall; growls and moans, a fine line between the two, flew from barely-parted lips. He pressed against her; too close, not close enough. Her skin was on fire, her eyes were flaring coals.

Just below her jawline, where he could feel the blood pulsing in rapid beats, adrenaline pumping through every vein, he pressed his lips there insistently and whispered, "I love you." And in those three words, in that quick release of breath, the spell was broken, and the flames licking between them were suddenly doused in cold water.

Her eyes fluttered open and her swollen lips parted just a hairbreadth more, and he knew he'd made a mistake. In the darkness, he could see the whites of her eyes glittering, and he imagined her wide stare piercing through his bone.

The harsh breathing was the only sound in the deafening silence.

He released her arms, letting them to gracefully fall to her side again, before taking a shaking step back, smoothing the rumples in his shirt. He didn't dare meet her gaze before the door was slammed shut, and his back was pressed against the flat wood, his reflection staring him down across the hallway.

He shattered the mirror with a frustrated snarl and a blow from his right fist. Lizzie watched with wide eyes at the end of the corridor.


	11. XI

**A/N: **This is going to be finished soon. I need to free up my time for my other multichapters. Three more chapters, I'd say.

* * *

The cold seeped easily through the tiny cracks in the walls, the drafts chilling the room to an uncomfortable temperature. He lay, nearly shivering, underneath the copious amounts of covers. The atmosphere outside was close to freezing, yet for reasons unknown, snow did not release from the bountiful yellow-tinged clouds collecting in the pale sky. At least the snow was pleasant to look at, rather than the icicles that gathered on his windowsill.

He could see from his peripheal vision, just below him, that she was shaking as well, even underneath her own blankets. Guilt pierced his heart at the thought and he had to physically stop himself from wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. He'd made the resolve that if she wasn't going to return the confession, he wasn't going to even try to take care of her. She clearly didn't want him to.

Everything seemed fueled by that silly declaration; everything he did seemed meaningless without it. He no longer kissed her forehead for the joy of her blushing; he no longer held her as she wept with pain, or had nightmares. Everything he did was dull without her.

He couldn't crawl into her bed and kiss away the cold, nor should he. That thought wrapped tendrils around his head, forcing himself to believe it, to accept it as gospel. But he could hear her teeth chattering. He could hear the small, barely-audible mewl that released from the back of her throat, the tiny plea for the cold to dissipate. And even if he shouldn't, he hated himself just a little.

Without making too much of a scene, he slowly peeled the covers off of him, leaving him stark and exposed to the frigid air. The heat he'd retained in his body flew off into the abyss, and he was left just as cold as if he was shirtless in the snow.

He bit down on his tongue to stop from crying out in the frosty pain, clenching his teeth together and tightly squeezing his eyes shut. He promptly hurled the blankets down at her, silencing her shaking teeth and leaving her to gasp mutely from underneath the assailed covers.

She didn't thank him. He didn't want to be thanked.


	12. XII

"Puck!"

His brain was foggy in protest to the sound of her shout, and he released a muffled groan into his pillow, trying to block out her voice. His dream had already slipped away, however, twirling off into the dark place where they never reappeared again. He pulled a sheet over his head, attempting to give off the facade of sleep.

"Puck," he could hear her tentative murmur, drifting from the hallway and into the room. There was a helpless tone to it, desperation, as if something had spun too far out of her control. He listened as harsh breathing began, as the sound of steady, quiet footsteps echoed in the corridor, as he could hear his door creak open, the barely-audible sob she tried to cover with her hand.

From his stance on the bed, he peered out from underneath the sheet and drew in a shaky breath at the sight. In the ghastly moonlight cast through the window, for once not shielded by his pale curtains, he could see tears streaming down her face, her eyes red and puffy. She whispered his name again, a small hitch in her monotonous, shallow breathing. In her hand, hidden in shadows where he could not see, she clutched at something balled in her palm.

Ignoring his resolve to stay away from her, he tore the sheet off his body and leapt out of bed, his spine jolting in the process. Still half-groggy with sleep, the room seemed to spin around him, dizzying him, before he anchored himself with his hand pressed against the wall. She was walking slowly towards him, her feet dragging as if she was too numb to carry on much longer.

Fear seemed to envelope him in a tight cocoon as she stood in front of him, staring up at him with a pleading expression in her eyes. The overflowing tears were taking over her body; he could see her shoulders began to tremble, her legs wobbling unsteadily, forcing him to hold her upright with his sturdy arms. He should have been able to ask her what was happening, but the terror was far too much, and he found words dry on his tongue.

When she was no longer swaying on her feet, standing with a tremor before him, she silently brought her clenched fist forward to him, seeming to brace herself with a deep breath. With the delicate calmness he could only imagine came from shock, she uncurled her hand with agonizing delay.

Unwilling to take the wait, he tore the item out of her hands and was surprised to see it was a sort of fabric. He let a cold beam of silver moonlight drift over it, and all at once his heart thudded rapidly against his ribcage, and a cry of horror slid past his lips.

It was a pair of her panties, the very bottom revealing a small splotch of blood where there should not have been.

"Puck," she sobbed. "There's something wrong with our baby."


	13. XIII

The ice-slicked roads were barren at that early time; his hands were nearly frozen on the steering wheel, grateful to the depth of his soul for the lack of snow blocking his sight. Every time his truck came to a halt at the stoplights, the glaring, crimson beams of light forming a migraine in his head, his gaze would dart to her still shape on the seat next to him. She was wrapped in a robe, her flimsy chemise hidden underneath the cover, wearing his old pajama pants that were loose on her waist. Horror was etched into her facial expression, yet she made no sound of her fear.

He rushed her into the lobby, waiting impatiently with his foot tapping on the tile, before the doctor was able to come to their aid. He soured at the man's expression, blank and uncaring, as if another day in the life of a doctor. A snarl slipped past his lips, but he managed to compose himself as they followed the man into the room.

She took his hand in hers, delicately squeezing with a tear escaping her tightly-shut eyes. The doctor allowed a smile to grace his features at the sight, then he was cold and stark again, turning around to fetch the gel.

Every breath he took seemed to pierce his throat like a freezing claw. With each thump of his heart, he could feel the shards of broken glass pulsing through his veins, the desperate faith he held onto disappearing as he took one quick glance at her wide, anguished eyes. Unconsciously, he began to grip her hand tighter, unwilling to let go.

The doctor slid a smooth probe over her stomach, slipping easily over the gel-coated skin. She was watching the monitor with fervent hope shining in her eyes; he was waiting with equally bated breath, narrowing his eyes despairingly on the sight. The baby, _their_ baby girl, was clearly visible in the contrasted black-and-white. He could make out the tiny, curled fists, the head tucked close to her stomach.

The doctor frowned, pressing the stethoscope deeper into his ears, closing his eyes with concentration. He waited for several agonizing heartbeats, unaware of her calculating stare, unaware of his desperate breathing. Then, with a resigned sigh, the doctor slowly removed the stethoscope and lifted his head slightly. "I can't find a heartbeat."

She let out a low wail of agony, her lips pressed in a thin line and her eyes finally releasing their full bounty of tears, trickling down her cheeks. He found himself brushing away the stains of salty sorrow, his knuckles white and trembling as he clenched her hand.

With a last sob, she pulled him down, enveloping him in a desperate hug, her arms wrapped around his neck and tears spilling onto his shirt. He hushed her with all he could give her, burying his face into her neck, needing the comfort just as much as she needed it.

Into the hollow of his ear, her lips pressed there softly, he could hear her say, "I love you, too."

Outside, the snow began to fall.

* * *

fin.


End file.
